Fucking Hope (part 2)

I walk in the room to find Hope as I asked to find her – kneeling, topless, in shorts, her hands behind her back. A nice touch, she has bowed her head, and her eyes face the floor demurely.

On the bed she has laid out a variety of clothes: a dress, a skirt, a t-shirt, a blouse, a pair of stockings, and some shorts she had sent me a tantalizing photo of a few nights ago.

Hope is pretty. A grown-up. Each time I see her, she looks a bit different to me, as a different aspect of her face comes into focus: her luscious, thick lips; her high cheekbones; her big, bright eyes. Her shiny, flouncy hair. The only thing that stays the same each time is the chopstick arrangement she uses to hold the bun atop her pretty head.

On this occasion, what I notice most is what I wanted to notice most: her full, shapely C-cup breasts, unconfined, waiting for me.

I approach her, take in the scene, and say, softly, as I unbutton my slacks and unzip my fly, “Good girl.”

My cock, hard, touches her lips. I press it forward, holding the back of her head as I slowly, gently, fuck her face.

I have her suck my cock for some time before I start cycling her through the clothes on the bed. I want them all off the bed, so I can, finally, fuck her. But I also want to see her body press against the fabric of each item, to touch her flesh through that fabric. So we spend some time working our way through the various items she’d brought. She sucks my cock; I squeeze, cup, fondle her breasts; I press against, into her cunt with my hands. And, eventually, I devour her.

I lower my head to her clit and delight, for some time, in the simultaneous responsiveness and resistance of her pussy. Hope bucks and moans, sighs and groans as I provide a variety of sensations with my tongue, my hands, my head. She approaches orgasm slowly, protractedly. And I pause as she gets closer, allowing us both to spend some time in that needing-to-come space.

I can’t recall where, exactly, fucking fits into the sequence, whether the first time she felt my cock slide up into her was after her hard-fought orgasm (her words – “Why do you fight them?” I asked – “I fight for them,” she explained), or before it. But she did, finally, feel my cock in her. First, as she sat on me, my hands gripping, slightly choking, her delicate, long neck, as I drove her back and forth, up and down, by her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, and her throat. And then, later, as I drove my cock down into her from above.

I hadn’t thought about where I wanted to come. In the end, I did as I have every time with her, as I almost always do with every partner: I came in her mouth. In her throat. I have a deep, primal appreciation for the sensation of feeding a beautiful, hungry woman my cock, my cum, and Hope is a beautiful, hungry woman.

Whom I fed my cum.

We lay around for a bit, discussing the things we discuss. Our families. Our work. The sex we just had. I dressed and returned to my day – it was about 11 in the morning. The smell of her pussy – mild, salty, musky – wafted from my beard upward all day, until my shower at the gym, a reminder of how my day had begun.